“Yes. He brought the boy here.”
“What? Why?”
“He wants to . . . take care of him.”
Aaron just stared at me and then looked at the house. “Well, don’t his parents care?” he asked after a moment.
“I told you. No one knows who they are—or any relatives, as a matter of fact. He had no identification on him, and no one is looking for him, apparently. At least, that’s what the police have said.”
“Why doesn’t the kid just tell them?”
“He’s suffering from amnesia,” I said, now unable to disguise the disapproval and even the disbelief in my voice.
“Amnesia . . . can’t remember his own parents?”
“Or his real name.”
“Bull.”
“They call it psychological trauma. It causes you to forget things, block them out of your head.”
“That’s what happened?”
“If you want to believe it.”
“So let me get this,” he said. “There’s a kid moving into your grandfather’s house who was poisoned either accidentally or deliberately, and until the police figure out who he belongs to, your grandfather’s keeping him and helping him with stuff.”
“Including a private-duty nurse,” I said. “Who has moved in.”
He shook his head.
“And a psychiatrist as well as the other doctors, not to mention the professional therapist who will be here daily.”
“Wow. Where’s Dick Tracy when you really need him?” he muttered, and I laughed. He gave me his best Aaron Podwell smile and then shrugged. “I guess, good for your grandfather for caring about the kid. I don’t think my father would do it. I don’t think my mother would even do it, although they do give money to all sorts of charities.”
“Some people say charity begins at home.”
“Huh?”
“Thanks for the ride in your new car,” I said, opening the door. “It is beautiful.”
“Beautiful car for a beautiful girl. Looking forward to Friday night.”
“Me, too,” I said. I closed the door and started toward the front entrance.
“Hey,” Aaron called, leaning out of his window. I turned. “If he doesn’t remember his own name, what do you call him, Arsenic?” He smiled.
“My grandfather has decided to call him William,” I said.
He lost his smile. I turned and walked to the house. When I reached the steps and the ramp and looked back, he was already gone.
Grandpa Arnold stepped out the front door and stood there with his hands on his hips. “Myra said you hung up on her before she could learn who was bringing you home.”
“Myra’s not my mother,” I said, walking past him. “Or my grandmother,” I muttered. I didn’t look back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw everyone working with the deliverymen. The chair lift had already been installed. There was a wheelchair just off the bottom step. I glanced at it and then started up the stairway.
“Just a minute, Clara Sue,” Grandpa called, walking after me.
I stopped. “What?”